


Aziraphale and the Desperate Priest

by charliebrown1234



Series: 5 Times Aziraphale was Almost Discorporated and One Time He Actually was [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 12th Century, Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Gen, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Priests, Summoning, Summoning Circles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 05:53:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19900882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliebrown1234/pseuds/charliebrown1234
Summary: Aziraphale is minding his own business chatting with Crowley when he is suddenly summoned away to a damp cellar. There, a priest improperly binds him and demands he perform miracles. It doesn't go well for either party, and Crowley is forced to rescue his angel.





	Aziraphale and the Desperate Priest

The basement is cold and damp, and as Father Erikson starts chanting in latin, Matthew regrets coming. Yes, Father Erikson had promised the angel would cure his mother’s illness, but there are strange symbols on the floor and Matthew desperately wants to leave.

The markings on the floor glow faintly as Father Erikson continues to chant, and as Matthew watches a circle starts to form amidst the runes. The tension is rising in the room, like a strong storm rolling over the fields, and Matthew shifts uncomfortably.

In front of him, Father Erikson raises his voice and shouts several words, then points towards the circle with a complicated gesture.

There is a bright flash of light and a rumble of earth, and then the circle is full of incredible brightness. From behind Matthew’s hand, it almost looks like a tube of light going into the heavens.

Father Erikson seems unphased, and says, “What is your name, angel?” There is a sound like lightning cracking, then a voice (Matthew thinks it’s a voice) begins to say, “Azirapha- ” before the sound cuts out. The light vanishes, and in its place is a man wearing a cream colored tunic.

He’s a short, plump man, dressed in the clothes of a nobleman, and he’s on his hands and knees in the middle of the circle. He looks disoriented as he peers around the room and tries to catch his breath.

Father Erikson also looks confused before gathering himself and saying clearly “Aziraphael, I bind thee to my will.” The circle flashes bright gold, and Matthew sees chains appear on the angel’s wrists and ankles. They vanish as quickly as they appeared, but Matthew thinks they must still be there, invisibly tethering the angel in place.

The angel coughs, then roughly pushes himself to his feet. His eyes are glowing faintly and Matthew swears he can see a faint shadow of wings pushing up against the boundaries of the circle.

Then the angel blinks, and what looks like a regular man stands in front of him. Now he’s upright, Matthew can better see the embroidered shoes and the fineness of the cream tunic on the angel. The angel also has the bluest eyes Matthew’s ever seen. The angel (man?) looks at both of them before saying tightly, “Who are you? Why have you summoned me here?”

Father Erikson smiles humbly and replies, “Oh angel Aziraphael, I am Father Erikson. I am the priest at Our Lady of Mercy, and I have summoned and bound you to seek your help.”

“But why did you summon me?” the angel asks, looking bewildered. “Surely, a prayer would have been sufficient.”

“My prayers have gone unanswered, Aziraphael, so I sought your mighty power to intercede on behalf of the Lord.”

“Yes, but you shouldn’t have been able to summon me at all,” says the angel, discomfited. ”Much less trap me in a binding circle. I’m not a demon, you know.”

Matthew himself is a little foggy on how Father Erikson had summoned the angel, but he does remember Father Erikson saying that they needed to get the angel’s name or the angel would be able to get free.

Matthew jerks his attention back to Father Erikson as he says, “I would first ask you to perform a miracle to prove your angelic power. Our church has been damaged in recent storms, and I would humbly ask you to repair the damage.”

The angel looks affronted. “I will do no such thing. Not until you let me out of this circle and release me.”

“I beseech you, oh angel Aziraphael, please repair the church and prove your heavenly powers.” There is a note of steel in Father Erikson’s tone now, and Matthew looks nervously between his face and the irritated angel.

“Absolutely not!” The angel snaps. “Are you deaf? Let me out of this circle at once!”

Father Erikson turns an angry red, and says, “You leave me no choice then.” He looks down at the book he is holding, and then says clearly, “I command you, Aziraphael, to repair the church.”

The circle glows gold at his words, and the angel yells as he’s pulled by the golden chains around his limbs. They snatch him into the air, pulling him spread eagled as he thrashes futilely in the restraints.

The angel yells again as the chains glow brighter and a being of light erupts from the angel’s back. The brightly glowing form is indescribable, full of the wings and eyes and limbs, and Matthew turns away in horror as the angel howls in pain.

“I command you, Aziraphael, to repair the church!” Father Erikson repeats as the angel roars in pain and anger. The chains pull even tighter, and the being suspended above the angel shrieks in sync with the man below it. There is blood leaking from the angel’s nose and rifts appearing in the being’s form as the pair struggle wildly.

There is an ear splitting wail, like the angel is being torn apart, and a huge pair of wings manifest. They flap once, light flashing, and power rolls across the room and over Matthew’s skin.

The circle goes dim, and the chains and the light being vanish. The angel falls to the floor with a sickening thump.

“Tend to him,” Father Erikson commands.

“What?” Matthew stammers.

“Tend to him,” Father Erikson repeats, pointing at the crumpled angel. “Wipe his face and give him succor. I must see if the church has been repaired.” He is already turning towards the stairs at the back of the room.

“But -” There is a swish of robes, and Father Erikson is gone.

Oh, Lord save him. He’s expected to get in the circle? With the creature that just released a light being from its body? Matthew shudders, but he doesn’t have any other options. Father Erikson’s punishments for disobeying aren’t worth contemplating. Therefore Matthew reluctantly finds himself grabbing his water pouch and tiptoeing toward the angel.

As he crosses the circle, the angel opens his eyes.

* * *

For what it’s worth, Aziraphale had been having a nice day. He’d been drinking with Crowley in a local tavern, tentatively discussing what they’d both started calling the Arrangement, and he was actually enjoying the local wine. Then he’d felt a tug at his angelic essence.

Before he could even open his mouth to protest, he was torn from the bar. Forcibly condensed to ethereal and almost stripped from his corporation, he clutched to consciousness as he was siphoned away.

When he arrived in the summoning circle, he was completely disoriented. Strung between his ethereal form and his corporation, he couldn’t figure out which bits of him belonged where, struggling to breathe with nonexistent angelic lungs and stretching human limbs that didn't exist. Therefore, when a man asked him his name, he responded instinctively.

The binding slammed him back into his corporation, where he felt dreadfully cramped and uncomfortable. This was only made worse when the man improperly bound him. Aziraphael was not his true name, but the suffix was close enough to prevent him from escaping the circle.

He took a few moments to catch his breath, then surveyed the ring he was trapped in. The runes would be easy enough to break, as they were only a bastardized version of a demonic summoning circle, but the name binding would be slightly more tricky. The man would have to release him willingly, or the connection would have to be forcibly severed. Aziraphale wasn’t looking forward to either option.

Aziraphale stood shakily, and after some introductions and posturing, Erikson tried to command him to repair his church. He refused outright, indignation flaring. Erikson asked him again. Truly, the nerve of this man!

Then Erikson commanded him.

Aziraphale screamed as he was seized by the binding, his angelic form and corporation forcibly separating. The binding was agony, searing, burning, taking what it wanted from him, but the incorrect invoking gave him just enough room to resist. He had almost wrestled back control before Erikson invoked his false name a second time.

The binding pulled him even tighter, and Aziraphale roared his pain in dual voices. He could feel the binding tearing him apart, pressure building in his corporation and rending his angelic essence to shreds. His human heart beat raggedly, skipping like a stone on a pond, and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath in any of his forms. He was pulled, pulled, ethereal joints popping and dislocating -

He breaks. His wings beat once, and Erikson’s command is fulfilled. Darkness claims his tattered pieces.

* * *

Matthew hasn’t moved since Aziraphael’s eyes opened, but the angel doesn’t seem to be doing anything. Matthew dares to inch a few steps closer. The blue eyes are alarmingly empty, and Matthew wonders for a brief second if he’s dead. Can angels even die? Does a person go to hell for killing one?

The angel breaks his train of thought by sucking in a breath and coughing. He curls miserably inwards, pressing a plump hand to his chest and groaning pitifully. Matthew clears his throat to get the angel’s attention, and the angel’s eyes fix on his with uncanny accuracy. Matthew blinks.

Within a heartbeat, the angel is on the opposite side of the circle, swaying on his knees. His eyes flash with holy fire, hands curled into loose fists.

Matthew falls flat on his butt as he scrambles out of the circle, but the angel only glows for a moment before hunching over with a wheeze. The angel’s once again clutching at his chest, blood trickling slowly down his face.

“Sir?” Matthew whispers, unsure of how to address an angel. “I’m not going to hurt you. Do you want some water?”

The angel frowns before he coughs and nods. Matthew unties the water pouch from his belt and tosses it into the circle where the angel carefully takes it from the ground. With stiff movements, like he’s not sure where his limbs start and end, he lifts the water to his mouth. He takes several swallows before choking harshly.

Matthew reaches out a hand to help, then thinks better of it and retracts it slowly. The angel catches the movement and says hoarsely, “What’s your role in all this?”

Matthew hesitates, then replies, “My mother is sick. Father Erikson said you could fix her.”

“Ah,” the angel replies. “I would like to help, of course, but Father Erikson has bound me.” He pauses, grimacing and massaging his chest before continuing, “Perhaps if you released me…” The angel trails off, looking meaningfully at the bloody runes at the edges of the circle.

“Matthew!” Matthew jumps as Father Erikson sweeps back into the basement. “Get back from that circle.” Before he can even move away, Father Erikson is dragging him backwards by the scruff of his neck. Father Erikson turns to face the angel with a joyful grin and exclaims, “You’ve done a beautiful job on the church, Aziraphael. I’m eager for your help in other matters.”

“My help?” says the angel stiffly, puncturing Father Erikson’s mood like an overfull waterskin. “You commanded me to repair your church. I would hardly call that help.”

“Nonetheless,” Father Erikson replies. “I need your assistance. Now that I know you’re a true angel, I have an important task for you.”

The angel looks wary and pale kneeling in the circle.

“I need you to raise my wife, Mary, from the dead. I would do anything to bring her back.”

The angel’s eyes soften slightly. “Did she pass recently?”

“No,” says Father Erikson gruffly. “She died over five years ago.”

“Five years ago?” The angel looks aghast. “I’m sorry for your loss, I truly am, but resurrections need to occur within a few days. I cannot help you!” The last part is high pitched and anxious.

“But surely you can raise her, you’re an angel,” Father Erikson says, a manic tone creeping into his voice. “You have the power of the Lord behind you!”

“Yes, but not like that! It’s more like… It’s more like moral support!” The angel says agitatedly. “I can’t raise someone from the dead.”

Father Erikson is starting to look panicked as he turns his back to the angel and paws frantically through his book. He doesn’t seem to find anything useful inside it before he brutally throws it against the damp cellar wall. Matthew wants to ask about his mother, but holds his tongue.

Father Erikson turns back to the angel with a dangerous look in his eye. “What if I commanded you?”

The angel swallows anxiously. “It still wouldn’t work. I’m not built to raise people from the dead.”

“What if I tried anyway?” Father Erikson asks darkly.

“Oh.” The angel looks afraid. “I, um, I wouldn’t recommend that. I could discorporate and kill you both. You wouldn’t want that, would you?” He finishes nervously.

“I want my wife back,” Father Erikson growls in reply.

He begins advancing on the circle, sending the angel scrambling backwards until he bumps into the invisible barrier.

“Please, you don’t want to do this,” the angel says intently. “I’ll do anything else. Anything.”

Matthew’s beginning to think he’s made a terrible mistake, and that Father Erikson isn’t going to help his mother at all. But if the angel doesn’t cure her today, she’ll surely die. Matthew risks tapping Father Erikson on the shoulder.

“Father Erikson, sir?”

“What do you want?” Father Erikson snarls.

“My mother, sir, she’s still sick. You said the angel would heal her.”

“After he brings back my Mary.”

Matthew eyes the circle, thinking quickly. The angel said he would heal Matthew’s mother if he let him out of the circle, so all Matthew has to do is scrub it out. He can do that. He readies himself to leap past Father Erikson, but as he’s preparing to spring he feels a hand close around his collar.

“What do you think you’re doing, boy? Betrayal?”

“I, no, I was just - ” He’s suddenly flying through the air, his head is impacting painfully with the wall. His vision swims dizzyingly. His ears still work however. He hazily hears Father Erikson shout, “I command you, Aziraphael, to raise Mary Erikson from the dead!”

Through blurry eyes Matthew sees the angel jerked into the air by the golden chains. The angel screams like he’s being crucified, and the light being bursts from his form. It too is screaming, high pitched and low pitched all at once, and Matthew clumsily covers his ears.

The angel convulses in mid-air, thrashing wildly. Matthew thinks absentmindedly that the golden chains look brighter than before, glowing fire bright on the angel’s flesh. They pulse in time with the angel’s screams, which are lilting higher and higher as the seconds drag by.

Then the chains dim slightly. The angel hitches a breath, choking out, “Mercy! Please!”

Father Erikson’s face is anything but merciful. With deadly precision, Father Erikson repeats, “I command you, Aziraphael, to raise Mary Erikson from the dead.” When nothing happens besides the angel crying out in pain, Father Erikson repeats it a second time. Then a third. Then a fourth. Eventually, it becomes like a chant. “I command you, Aziraphael, to raise Mary Erikson from the dead.”

Each repetition hits the angel like a lance, causing him to yelp and twist in the air. The light being above the angel twists too, huge rents opening in its flesh, and the chains glow brighter and brighter with each repeated phase. Suddenly, light is being siphoned from the angel, flying from the angel’s chest and flowing towards the corner of the cellar with inexorable intent.

Something horrible is forming there. A rough skeleton begins assembling itself from the dirt with moldy, patchy skin covering it. Then long, blonde tresses spring from the skull as skin crawls over the face. Bright green eyes appear in hollow sockets.

The creature is standing even though it’s only partially assembled, and it moves jerkily towards Father Erikson. Its loose jaw opens, and it creaks, “Frederick?”

“Mary?” Father Erikson gasps. “Mary, is that you?”

“Frederick? Where am I? Everything feels wrong.” The rotten, corpse-like creature is limping closer, gaining additional features with each step.

Behind Father Erikson, the angel chokes in agony. Matthew looks, startled, and sees from his position on the floor that the light being in the circle has become incredibly small, and is becoming smaller as the chains pour energy from the angel to Mary. “Please…” the angel moans.

The angel looks like he’s dying. Blood is pouring from his nose, ears, and eyes, and he is so pale he almost looks like the tormented spirits Matthew’s seen on the walls of the church. He wonders if angels go back to heaven when they die.

Several feet away from Matthew, Father Erikson cries out joyfully, taking Mary in his arms. To Matthew eyes, she looks grotesque, feet and lower legs still skeletal and rotten, but Father Erikson doesn’t seem to mind. He kisses her tenderly before releasing her and turning toward the angel with determination.

“I command you, Aziraphael, to raise Mary Erikson from the dead.” The angel jerks weakly. Matthew watches as the light being shrinks to almost nothing, and the angel goes limp in the chains. Matthew supposes there’s nothing left for him to give.

As Father Erikson continues to repeat the phase, the light emitting from the angel slows to a trickle and stops. Oh, God save them all, Father Erikson is going to kill an angel.

“I command you, Aziraphae- ” Father Erikson makes a wet sound and falls to the floor, dagger protruding from his neck. The chains vanish, and the angel pitches forward, completely limp.

Matthew sees a thin man with flame red hair rush towards the angel, and then time freezes and he knows no more.

* * *

“Aziraphale!” Crowley cries, leaping over the priest and the corpse next to him. He quickly rubs out the major sigils in the summoning circle and takes the unconscious Aziraphale into his arms. Crowley taps Aziraphale’s cheek lightly, avoiding the ghastly blood trails underneath, but there is no response. There isn’t much that can keep an angel unconscious, so Crowley blinks sideways to look at Aziraphale’s ethereal form.

There’s nothing there. There should be a glowing, blinding, maelstrom of an angel grumpily shooing Crowley out of his personal sphere, but there isn’t. There’s nothing at all. Crowley’s heart clenches, and he throws his ethereal form closer, hoping, praying there’s something left. Then he sees it. A tiny, feeble spark. Crowley leaps forward, cupping the shred of Aziraphale’s essence with terrified, careful palms. It glows faintly at the contact.

Crowley hurls himself back into the corporeal plane and unleashes a burst of demonic power to shatter the floor, destroying the circle completely. No reaction from Aziraphale. He blinks sideways to see if there’s been any ethereal changes and is reassured by the spark’s slightly brighter glow.

Crowley blinks back and quickly decides to get Aziraphale somewhere not tainted with the occult. Once they’re somewhere safe he can figure out how to meld the angel’s essence back into his corporation.

Crowley carefully picks Aziraphale’s body up and moves towards the exit, fear gibbering at the edges of his mind. He speeds towards the town inn, releasing time and wiping the memories of the boy inside the cellar as he goes.

Go -, Sata-, Somebody’s sake, what if he can’t fix Aziraphale? He’s never seen the angel so diminished before, not even after that run in with the hellhound in Egypt.

He shakes himself out of his dark thoughts and shoves open the inn door, moving rapidly up the stairs to the communal boarding rooms while simultaneously clearing the building of people. He doesn’t want anyone around as he attempts to piece Aziraphale back together.

With a glare, the rope bed in the room transforms into a four poster with a feather down mattress and clean sheets. Any bed bugs that might have existed vanish in tiny puffs of hellfire as Crowley gently lays Aziraphale down onto the bed.

The angel is still unresponsive, so Crowley decides to take the opportunity to assess Aziraphale for wounds. After a thorough search, Crowley is forced to conclude there’s nothing wrong with Aziraphale’s corporation beside the fact that Aziraphale is not inside it.

Crowley contemplates his next move as he miracles up a basin and a cloth to clean away the blood trails on Aziraphale’s face. He can’t think of any way to jumpstart an angel’s essence besides sending them back to heaven, and Crowley desperately doesn’t want to discoporate Aziraphale. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t think Aziraphale would survive the trip. He also doesn’t think a demonic miracle would work, as demonic and angelic essences aren’t compatible at base level. But what can he do then?

Crowley broods silently as he carefully scrubs dried blood from Aziraphale’s face. He could still hear Aziraphale ethereally screaming in his mind's eye, guiding him like a homing beacon north. When it stopped, Crowley had thought Aziraphale was dead.

He almost collapsed in simultaneous relief and heartbreak when the screams started up again a few minutes later. He followed Aziraphale’s ragged screams faster than the human eye could see and arrived just as Aziraphale’s screams went quiet.

Through the doors, down the stairs, and then there was Aziraphale, bloodied and bound by some miserable human priest. Crowley manifested a knife and killed the man without a thought. How _dare_ he bind Aziraphale to his will? Crowley’s anger raged bright and red hot, but it extinguished like a candle when he saw Aziraphale crumple to the ground limp and ragged. 

Aziraphale is _still_ limp and ragged. Crowley’s determined ministrations have done nothing except clean the angel’s face of blood, and when he shifts to wring out the cloth in preparation to attack Aziraphale’s blood smeared tunic, Aziraphale twitches.

Crowley shifts ethereally to check on Aziraphale’s progress, watching with restrained hope as Aziraphale’s spark slowly brightens. With naive intentions, he reaches out to encourage it, forgetting for a second about his demonic essence. As Crowley makes contact, Aziraphale’s rudimentary spark bristles in fear and calls out in panic for heavenly power.

Crowley curses fiercely and blinks sideways before throwing himself out the window as Aziraphale’s corporation is subsumed by heavenly light. Freed from the priest's summoning circle and confronted with a demonic presence, heaven has finally decided to aid its earthbound angel.

Crowley takes shelter behind a well and watches as the second story room becomes bright enough to rival the sun. Villagers in the street shriek and cower on the ground as the light pulses with celestial intent while Crowley watches intently behind slitted eyes for any sign of Aziraphale. When the light dims, Crowley hurtles back towards the inn.

Inside Aziraphale’s room, the air is suffused with heat. Aziraphale is practically radiating it, which Crowley assumes is from the heavenly boost. He blinks sideways to check.

In the ethereal plane, Aziraphale’s spark is now a raging bonfire. The angel has been fully restored, his limbs and wings flailing desperately. Crowley finds himself ducking as Aziraphale’s various forms try to put themselves back into order, and he shifts sideways before Aziraphale can accidentally smite him.

Aziraphale’s corporation isn’t doing any better, radiating heat like a well banked fire. The best Crowley can figure is that Aziraphale is trying to shove his newly boosted essence back into his corporation, but now there’s simply too much of him to fit. Either way, if Crowley doesn’t keep Aziraphale’s temperature down, the angel won’t have a corporation to fit back into. Crowley quickly miracles new rags and a basin of water to try and keep Aziraphale cool.

As Aziraphale shoves his angelic essence back into his corporation, he begins to thrash and whimper, semi-conscious at best. Crowley’s fists clench as Aziraphale whimpers out words like “Please,” and “Mercy!”, and the demon does his best to soothe the angel’s frantic cries.

When Aziraphale shudders and says, “Please, it’s too much! I can’t -” Crowley isn’t sure if Aziraphale is still trapped in his memories or just overcome by his own angelic essence.

As the minutes tick by, the room gets steadily hotter, almost rivaling a sauna as Aziraphale shoves more and more of his angelic self into his corporation. Crowley can almost feel the heavenly power prickling at his skin, filling the room and pushing down and in and out and everywhere and oh god Aziraphale is going to accidentally smite him -

Then the heavenly power is gone. Crowley blinks, feeling sunblind and scalded, and Aziraphale opens his eyes on the bed. “Crowley?” Aziraphale croaks.

“I’m here, angel.” He blinks furiously, trying to clear the last bits of heavenly light from his eyes.

“Where am I?”

“Uh, we’re in an inn. Somewhere in Scotland, I think,” Crowley hedges. He watches Aziraphale slowly process this information.

“I can’t remember what happened. I was in a cellar…”

“Yes, you were.” Crowley is hoping, praying Aziraphale won’t ask any more questions. Aziraphale takes this piece of knowledge and chews on it for a while, before sitting up and paling drastically.

“Where’s the priest? And the boy?”

“I took care of it.” Crowley says in a tone that brooks the end of the conversation. He can feel his rage reigniting and shoves it down to a simmer for another time. Aziraphale doesn’t deserve to be near his rage right now, not when he’s still healing. Aziraphale also subsides, sensing the change in mood.

“You should get some more rest angel, you’re still not a hundred percent,” Crowley says lightly, deliberately shifting the conversation away from recent events.

“Sounds like a good idea,” Aziraphale replies, lowering himself back down to the bed. “What are you going to do?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be around,” Crowley replies.

And to his surprise, Crowley is. He spends the next few days watching Aziraphale settle back into his corporation, observing as the angel practices minor miracles and laughing hysterically as Aziraphale relearns how to use his legs. Crowley sneaks out to perform some minor miracles too so heaven won’t get suspicious. Pretty routine stuff, healing sick mothers, farmers finding lost sheep, etc.

Crowley also observes when Aziraphale depletes his still limited energy, and he frequently finds himself helping the angel back into his bed. One evening, when Aziraphale has pushed himself particularly hard, Crowley finds himself reciting bits of stories from a scroll he’d read several hundred years ago.

He would never admit it, of course, but seeing Aziraphale gaze at him with such admiration for his funny voices makes him wish they’d never have to leave. They could just stay here in this nowhere village, wasting away the days with stories and sharing anecdotes from their long shared histories.

But Aziraphale heals, and within a week Crowley once again finds himself alone. He doesn’t completely despair however. He has the promise of the Arrangement to look forward to, and with any luck he’ll see Aziraphale within a month. He lets this hope warm his chest as he makes his way through the cold and damp fields of Scotland.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is supposed to be set in the 1200s, but I was deliberately vague with the time period. Scotland was also picked at a whim because I didn't want Crowley to have to go across the Channel to rescue Aziraphale. 
> 
> My editor this week was the lovely [Kazeetie](https://kazeetie.tumblr.com/), who helped with tense issues, had wonderful sentences suggestions, and helped with the summary.
> 
> Also shout out to [Pamspamela](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pamspamela) for giving me the idea to have a priest do the summoning. Without her, there would be no story.


End file.
